A Tattered One, Please
A few weeks ago, I was dragged to a rummage sale by a coworker. I usually find garage, rummage, yard, and all other sales of the type tedious; I don’t collect junk that way. This is not to say I don’t collect junk, only that my junk comes in a different form than second hand pots, child-sized tables, and broken (but it wouldn’t be much to fix it... ) appliances.
I didn’t see the seller until after I saw a box filled with books and literary magazines. I crouched and noted Milan Kundera’s Immortality1 along with a bunch of journals with the title “A Room of One’s Own.” I asked if she was a writer and she seemed pleasantly surprised that I’d ask. When she returned the question I waffled; I heard an Irish lilt to her voice and my intuition warned me against sounding pretentious. I told her I read a lot and she asked what – the dreaded question, the measuring question.
I should have finished Middlemarch. Then I could have answered with George Elliot, she would have thought better of me, I’d ask her about Joyce and whether The Hours really got Woolf right, and if A.S. Byatt is only good at writing like a Victorian for people like me.
I’m on the lookout for a copy of the book. I’d almost buy it used on Amazon but I’d like a tattered one. Here is my shallow confession of the day: I hate new publications of classics, especially ones with new cover art. The following sounds perfect -
Spine creased, cover edges worn, cover corners creased, cover yellowed, pages yellowed. 1985 Bantam Books Mass Market Paperback. Collectible - Acceptable.
Point. Click. Buy.
1Another unfinished book, but this one without regrets.
10:28:33 PM 
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